


A Short Trip to Hell

by prodigalsanyo



Series: Cocktales [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: A flock of dead doves, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Vacation, dead dove canapés, spring break me daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26629891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: For spring break, Malcolm and college friends head to Orlando; where Doctor Whitly will attend a conference.  Fic may be read as standalone Brightly dubcon, or as Part 1 of 3 in "Cocktales" series.-A Short Trip to Hell, Drink Recipe:  Shake Red Bull, peach, strawberry, and wild berry schnapps in a cocktail shaker with ice. Strain into glass. Then put Jagermeister into shot glass. Drop in the shot and swallow for daddy.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Series: Cocktales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937263
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	A Short Trip to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> KateSamantha: *mentions Spring break Malcolm*
> 
> Me: *totes immune*
> 
> KateSamantha: *inspirational pic spam!!!*
> 
> Me: oh no i want it

Malcolm Whitly makes ambitious Spring Break plans to chill in the A/C and read. His intentions to catch up on goodreads are slightly diverted when his dormitory suite mates Cal Taylor and Liam Boutsikaris discuss their vacation plans during midterms study break. 

"I'm getting kind of sick of Aruba," says Cal. "My father has taken all his ex wives to Aruba every other year since I was in junior high."

"Maybe he needs to pay 'em more," grins Liam.

"Do you have better plans, Liam?" says Cal, nonplussed.

"My family's in Greece. They're making me join them because they don't trust me home alone," says Liam, glum.

"It's beach weather, isn't it?" asks Cal.

"South Greece, yeah, but it's too cold where the family business is located," says Liam. "I would rather stay home and play with my snake."

"Relatable af," says Cal. "I like my new mom, but they're going to Aruba. It's the kiss of death."

"What are you gonna do, Malcolm? Hole up like us?" says Liam.

"My family has a timeshare in Orlando. I'm vacationing with my high school bestie Vijay who attends Columbia. Vijay is bringing his friends Jin and Javier. It'll be the four of us at Disney World and then Cocoa Beach," answers Malcolm.

"Wait a minute, no chaperones?" asks Cal. "How would you guys get around?"

"We're renting a car. Vijay and Jin drive. I have my license, too, if they get drunk," says Malcolm.

"How many bedrooms do you have? Can you guys make space for one more?" begins Cal.

"Dude, count me in," says Liam.

"I have to check with my parents," says Malcolm.

Jessica is thrilled when he calls home.

"Sweetheart, of course you must host a Taylor during vacation. Why, they're royalty. I'll have housekeeping make up two extra beds." Jessica lowers her voice. "You're welcome to the highball station, but try not to break into your dad's aged Scotch unless it's an emergency or if Cal wants a glass."

"I wouldn't touch it," says Malcolm.

"We know. How exciting! My son toasting drinks with royalty. What new avenues this may open up," sighs Jessica. "Be a dear and call your dad."

"I'll contact him," says Malcolm.

"Talk to him. Kisses!" exclaims Jessica, ending the call with a smooch over the receiver.

Malcolm opens the text thread with his father, stomach sinking when he reads the previous month's date on the last text sent. He glides over the dial icon and types a quick update about his Spring Break.

He almost jumps in his chair when his phone vibrates, his father's name on caller ID.

"Hi, son. It is Dad. How are you, Malcolm?" greets his father, warmly. "I was hoping to catch you before you resumed studies."

"I am well. How is work?" answers Malcolm.

"Not a bad day. I just wanted to throw it out there that mid-March, I'll be presenting a lecture for a medical conference. It's in Orlando," informs his father.

"Oh," says Malcolm. "The same time as my vacation?"

"The organization is putting me up in a hotel as a keynote speaker," continues his father. "I have no intention of cramping your style. The place is all yours, boys."

"Okay. Thanks Dad," says Malcolm.

"Is there any chance I could catch you for dinner? I would treat your friends as well," offers his father.

"Maybe? We have a tight itinerary," replies Malcolm. "Disney World. Cocoa Beach. Cape Canaveral."

"I would adore witnessing a rocket launch with you. Do you remember Space Races?" mentions his father.

"Whitly?" The door to Malcolm's dorm room signals a way out of a conversation that Malcolm doesn't want to have.

Liam wiggles halfway past the door, slips on the smooth panel, and slams into the door jamb. Cal waits for Malcolm's response with crossed arms. Malcolm gives them a quick thumbs up.

"Malcolm?"

"I gotta go. The guys want to get back to midterms," says Malcolm. Liam dances around like an Egyptian with the raised arms and bent wrists while Cal leaps up and smacks the head of the door frame; both of them pumped for Orlando.

"Of course. I'll text you my hotel information when I land. Anything you need, my boy, I am there," says his father over the commotion in the background which sounds like a nurse paging the OR.

“Okay. Thanks, Dad.” He can’t hold a pencil after speaking with his father; his palms itch from sweat and his knuckles are tight from the muscles cramped by prolonged panic. Malcolm plays music in his room to cover up the noise from his sleep restraints and whatever nightmarish cries aren’t choked back by his mouth guard.

* * *

The humidity hits Malcolm once he leaves Orlando Int’l. He pays fare for the taxi ride through avenues lined with palm trees. Cal and Liam, via private charter plane, will join them later at the Whitly’s timeshare. A solar yellow Jeep Wrangler peels into the reserved parking spot. What Up Gangsta by 50 Cent blares loud and clear without the jeep’s soft top.

“Sup, home skillet?!” yells the driver, honking the horn before he cuts the engine. Malcolm waves at Vijay as an Asian and a white Hispanic man leap out of passenger seats with their carry-ons.

“Baby boy, meet Jin. He’s our camera guy. Gonna be Real World up in here! Yerp yerp!!” exclaims Vijay.

Malcolm waves at Jin. “Hi! I’m Malcolm.”

“Hey. So you know Vijay from his prep school days,” says Jin.

“Since we was freshies,” interjects Vijay.

“How did you meet?” asks Malcolm. Jin seems like the type who wouldn’t pick a yellow jeep rental.

“I interned for MTV. Vijay wouldn’t leave me alone after,” says Jin, raising a Sony handycam.

“Mi amigo, Javier!” announces Vijay.

“Hola,” greets Javier. He shakes Malcolm’s hand. His white V-neck strains from his cut muscles.

“I brought him as a ringer. He’s the honey trap,” says Vijay. “When the girls go wild, Jin will immortalize the titties. And me, I honor my people, by bringing the spice.”

“Your dad’s a Manhattan guy and your mom’s from Queens,” says Malcolm. 

“Cut it,” says Vijay to the handycam rolling in Jin’s grip. He makes a slashing motion across his throat. His arm loops around Malcolm’s neck, dragging him into a noogie. “Buddy ol’ pal, you know what you’re gonna bring to the game?”

“The game?” repeats Malcolm. He smells weed.

“You have… great hair,” says Vijay, fluffing Malcolm’s brown tufts. “You are our emissary. You talk to the po po in situations requiring diplomacy. On behalf of your brothers of color.”

“I made up an itinerary. The time slots are color coded for busy times,” says Malcolm. He shows Vijay a neatly folded page.

“Reservations are for yuppies. We don’t need no stinkin’ time tables. Let this muthafucka burn!” yells Vijay.

“I’ll take that,” says Jin, executing a flawless snatch. Malcolm’s itinerary goes up in flames for Jin to ignite the charcoal on the fenced backyard deck. Jin grills shrimp and beef stocked by housekeeping in the timeshare. Javier mixes up poisonous mojitos. Vijay kicks off a crunk playlist. Malcolm sits criss crossed on a folded chair, occasionally peering up from his Sony eReader to watch Javier dance.

“Javier’s agent told him about Justin Timberlake touring next year. He might work for JT! I might actually buy JT’s whole damn album come September,” says Vijay, sitting barefoot in the grass.

“And I’m burning that album on a CD,” adds Jin.

“Bootlegger.”

“Money saving traditions of my culture,” rejoins Jin. 

Vijay has already exited the chat. “Javier! Catch me!”

Javier anticipates Vijay’s movements and appears to be receptive. He re-directs Vijay harmlessly into a soft and lush shrub. “No way, asere.”

“Why the hell not? My body was ready,” pouts Vijay. He sprawls as though the world has left him behind.

“You would’ve given him a hernia,” says Malcolm, gaining his feet. He explains warm ups to Vijay and demonstrates the proper steps to approach Javier as the principal danseur.

“Viens ici!” calls Javier.

Malcolm’s body obeys the command given by the lead. He planks in the air as Javier lifts him to unexpected heights.

“You are very light,” compliments Javier as he lowers Malcolm.

“Thanks! Most food makes me sick.” Malcolm’s jaw drops when a large hand squeezes his ass. Javier winks at him before Vijay pulls Malcolm into an improvised dance.

“That one wants a sugar daddy,” says Vijay. He changes the song to Gold Digger by Kanye ft Jamie Foxx.

“I get a pretty big allowance,” jokes Malcolm.

“Don’t,” says Vijay.

“I don’t see why not,” says Malcolm.

“Because nobody puts baby boy in a corner,” says Vijay. He taps Malcolm’s forehead and pushes him into a stumbling back pedal.

Malcolm’s cell phone buzzes, signaling the arrival of his dorm mates Cal and Liam and an unexpected guest.

“What the hell? Is that a real snake?” 

Jin’s camera is rolling.

“I couldn’t talk him out of it,” says Cal.

Liam introduces his pastel pink hognose snake.

“Hello Sunshine,” says Malcolm. He rolls his eyes when Javier cringes and hangs back. “Welcome to Spring Break.”

When they hit up the bars, Malcolm nurses one drink. He surreptitiously places his Sony eReader on his thigh. Since he’s the only one in the group who brought his North Face sling bag, everyone dumps their camera or water bottles on him. He almost has a heart attack when the sling bag moves. 

“Liam,” huffs Malcolm. He tucks his eReader into his shorts, careful not to disturb Sunshine the cutest stow away. Her rosy little tail hugs the water bottle.

Malcolm uses the time stamp on Jin’s handycam to track down Cal whose phone died. Fortunately, Cal shares a joint with Vijay whose phone plays Big Poppa by Notorious B.I.G. when Malcolm repeatedly dials Vijay’s number. The heir to the Taylor estate rants about arsonists out to destroy his love life. Though Malcolm will by no means sleep early, he ends his night prematurely when Javier vomits on him, triggered by Sunshine poking out of the sling bag to say hola. 

This is still better than hanging out with his father.

* * *

The top down Jeep ride to Disney World did him no favors. Malcolm straightens his red wig until the dyed locks sit properly on the shoulders of his purple crop top. His white thong rides up and above shimmery green leggings which stop at his calves. The clear glitter jelly sandals are comfortable. The green sequins feel like a mistake, but Malcolm is the sort to sacrifice for aesthetics.

“You can’t bring your pet into the theme park,” says the ticket attendant.

Liam is wearing a light blue silk camisole, turquoise boho harem pants, and baby blue flip flops. Sunshine clings to Liam, the early morning sun not warm enough.

“It’s not a pet. It’s a pink featherless boa,” says Liam. He slides wads of twenties through the opening of the ticket window.

“Don’t take your accessory on any of the rides,” says the attendant.

Malcolm and Liam join the others. Javier wears a dollar store tiara and leotard with a feathered cap and white tutu. Vijay fiddles with his yellow micro skirt and puffy sleeved blue blouse, a red bow hairband atop his silken black coif. A lion head tassel beanie sits on Jin’s head as he, in casual summer clothes, takes plenty of pictures with his selfie stick.

“Were you expecting Mulan? Because of my heritage?” says Jin.

“Dude, our theme was princesses,” whines Vijay.

“I’m Nala. She married the Lion King,” reasons Jin.

“Boy lions have the mane,” retorts Vijay.

“At least I did a costume. Cal didn’t even try,” says Jin.

They all note that Cal wears a white long sleeve shirt and white jeans. The only item out of place on Cal are a pair of brown earmuffs.

“I’m Princess Leia,” answers Cal. “She’s with the rebels.”

“She’s not a Disney princess,” says Jin. “And you’ve got her Empire Strikes Back outfit mixed with New Hope hair.”

“Guys, we are in Disney World,” Malcolm points out.

“Whitly’s not wrong. Let’s live it up, bitches!” says Vijay.

They split up into two groups: Malcolm, Vijay, and Jin; Cal, Liam, and Javier.

“Why Snow White?” Malcolm asks him later.

“Apples are my fave,” answers Vijay. 

It was Vijay’s crazy idea for them to bust out the costumes.

“A lot of women are into men who are secure in their masculinity and in touch with their feminine side. Say that you go up to a girl when you’re dolled up like a princess. If she doesn’t notice, she’s so drunk that she’ll do whatever. And if she doesn’t want to be a Disney princess, she’s prolly down to fuck one.”

Most of their group had been too stoned to debate with Vijay’s school of thought. Malcolm hadn’t smoked with them, but the contact high inspired him to listen to his inner voice which identified with The Little Mermaid.

Malcolm and Vijay sit at the corner table with grilled chicken sandwiches and beers for lunch. Jin ditches them to flirt with Sleeping Beauty.

“How’s your family?” says Malcolm. He only eats the chicken, foregoing the soggy patty bun. His eReader is tucked on his leg beneath the tabletop.

“It’s still weird with me and Pappa,” says Vijay. “He’s always asking to spend time with me. And he’s nosier. Just buys me shit when we’re going out. I just feel pressured to be a good son.”

“He’s making up for lost time,” replies Malcolm.

“He’s acting like he can’t believe that I’m alright. That I turned out okay while he was in the slammer,” says Vijay. He pounds a beat onto the lunch table. “You know when we started hanging out, Pappa was already in jail. I sat at that shaky, half-folded table by myself before you did. And all you did was read and throw out your food.”

Malcolm looks up from his eReader, embarrassed to be called out.

“You know that you’re the only one who wanted to go on a trip with me? Our other friends found places to be.”

“I didn’t really keep up with them either,” says Malcolm.

“You’re one of the real ones, baby boy,” says Vijay. “It felt like you were the only one who didn’t judge me for what my Pappa did.”

“How could I, Vijay?” retorts Malcolm. “If my father were to be incarcerated, it would’ve broken my family and I would likewise be shunned.”

“We’d just be tighter. Bad dad lads,” says Vijay.

Malcolm’s teeth flash, his lips pulled into a smile before Vijay blocks the eReader screen and Vijay’s thigh warms his leg. A smirk chases around Vijay’s mouth. “Are you still tight?”

“It’s been awhile for me,” says Malcolm.

“I would say that you’re no fun Whitly, but I’d be lying,” says Vijay. “You need to meet people and cut loose when I’m not around to shake things up. My agenda on this trip is to get trashed ‘til next Tuesday.”

Vijay grabs Malcolm’s hand and pats it. “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get some tail, Little Mermaid. My boy Jin is a wallflower. But even Jin Blossom’s got the right idea.”

They look over at Jin talking up Snow White.

“That boy wants to fuck white chicks so bad he snow blind,” says Vijay. “And what am I, chopped liver? That hussy is already banging seven midgets for roof.”

“You wear it better,” assures Malcolm. They high five.

* * *

“That is some aggressive texting,” says Cal.

“That can’t be a girl,” says Liam. “I bet you it’s his mom. You better text her back.”

It’s a dozen texts from his father. Malcolm sends a thumbs up emoji.

They’re all packed into the bathroom to touch up their eyeliner and body glitter (except for Jin, who ditches his lion head beanie tassel). Javier fixes his hair and pins down his tiara, his glossy pink lips pursed around a cigar. Jin holds Vijay's phone as Vijay reapplies falsie bottom lashes. Cal is overheated in his Leia outfit until Liam takes a pocketknife to the white shirt. ("Should've done Slave Leia, Cal.") The bathroom is the only place they can talk without the club music drowning them out.

“Buddy system,” says Vijay. “Me and Javier. Whitly and Liam. Cal and Jin. Text your buddy if you’re bringing her home. Get an address if she’s taking you home. Got it team?”

They huddle up and break after snapping photos with Jin's selfie stick.

Malcolm relaxes when Liam chats up a girl at the bar who shyly pats his pink pastel snake. He puts the eReader down flat on the bar top and loses track of time. When his phone buzzes, he goes to find Liam and takes custody of Sunshine.

“Thanks, Malcolm! You two have a good time,” says Liam before he peaces out for a magic carpet ride.

Malcolm gets back to reading, even more disinclined to mingle with Sunshine’s pretty scales adorning his neck. He gets spoiled with snek kisses. Then the bartender serves him a drink that he did not order.

“Compliments of the cowboy,” says the bartender.

Malcolm turns his head and clocks a Bush/Cheney voter in his late 50s. Bolo tie, big hat, and silver-white goatee. Malcolm briefly lifts his long red wig to indicate that he is a real boy. When the cowboy joins him, Malcolm raises the estimated age to 60s.

“Howdy. You have the prettiest eyes I ever seent,” greets the cowboy, moving the dyed strands from Malcolm’s ear. “It’s a shame you been using them to read all night. Too much reading can’t be good for you.” The cowboy paws up Malcolm’s waist and snaps his thong.

As much as he respects old cowboys who haven’t quit the rodeo, Malcolm chooses books. When he goes out to get air, he smells the heavy sweetness of Javier’s cigar and spots Vijay doubled over a potted shrub.

“Will you take him home? We have friends inside but Vijay cannot perform,” says Javier.

“I’m up. I’m up!” refutes Vijay. He looks like he ate a bushel of bad apples.

“I will tell them you are not feeling well,” says Javier. “Better not keep the twins waiting.”

Babysitting Sunshine in their vacation lodgings while Vijay spoons the porcelain goddess and cries off his falsies… is still better than hanging out with his father.

* * *

Jin returns with red stained lips and no shirt. Cal is still in his room, his brown earmuffs hanging over the door knob. Malcolm makes grilled cheese sandwiches and rations out the ham. His hands shake from feeding Sunshine a breakfast that’s more fresh than what Malcolm can handle; his suspicions that Liam would disappear are confirmed when Liam informs the group via messenger that he will meet them at Cocoa Beach.

Malcolm reads while everyone else (including Sunshine) sleeps through the daylight. They have one more night in Orlando before partying on the sand. Malcolm would rather stay in and watch kung fu movies with Sunshine cuddled up in a food coma. But Javier and Jin make plans to sit through a musical. Cal’s date invites him to play volleyball with her friends. Vijay wants to suit up for a casino. Malcolm regrets not listening to his mother; he did not pack a suit. Instead, Malcolm wears a Hawaiian print shirt and bleached white shorts.

Vijay is down thousands of dollars after they hit the tables. Malcolm nets a few bucks. Vijay looks upset when he excuses himself to use the bathroom. Malcolm checks his phone while he waits outside the bathroom for his friend.

His father invited him to dinner a couple hours ago, but Malcolm genuinely missed the numerous calls and messages left on his voicemail due to distractions. The casino is a short drive from his father’s upscale hotel. His mother will give him hell. Malcolm goes into the bathroom, away from the slots and wheels and digital pings, and sees Vijay’s leather wingtips under the stall doors.

He calls his father.

“My boy! I couldn’t wait to eat. Are you having a good time? Being safe, I hope,” says his father.

“I’m okay. With a friend. It’s busy,” says Malcolm.

“Do you think you can get away for a couple hours and pal around with Dad? I had my heart set on catching you. Although, there is always the summer...”

A bang echoes through the bathroom. Malcolm whirls around and runs toward the stall doors where Vijay’s suit is crumpled on the tile. The door is locked. His phone skitters as Malcolm gets onto his belly and contorts himself to gain entry. Malcolm flattens himself over Vijay, shaking him and hitting him. Sweat coats Vijay’s skin like an oily sheen. He’s so pale that his face looks gray and his lips are purple.

“My head…” groans Vijay.

“Did you hit your head?” demands Malcolm. He unlatches the door and helps Vijay to stand.

“I’m good, I’m good,” insists Vijay.

“You are not good. We’re going to the ER,” says Malcolm. He yells when Vijay’s fingers curl on the stall door, resisting Malcolm's pull to seek medical attention. Vijay's breathing is labored. Deep breaths bring no relief. Malcolm sees Vijay’s fingernails are dark blue.

“No, I’m good. Get off me,” slurs Vijay. “No ER.”

Malcolm’s phone rings again. He snatches it up. “Dad, can’t talk. I have to go to the hospital!”

“Are you hurt? Where are you, my boy? How do I get to you?” demands his father.

“It’s my friend. I have to go,” says Malcolm.

“Malcolm. Let me help!” yells his father. “I want to help.”

When Malcolm rattles off the symptoms, his father says, “It sounds like your friend took something which caused him to lose balance. Bring him to my room. I would collect you myself, but time is of the essence. How soon can you arrive at Orange Avenue?”

“We’re at the casino,” says Malcolm.

“Ah, yes, I can see where you are from my window,” replies his father. “Chop, chop Malcolm.”

His father awaits him in the lobby. He wears a T-shirt and jogging pants. His face is red from the sun and he smells like body wash.

“Hello, son. Let’s get to it,” says his father. While Vijay can walk on his own, his father and Malcolm work together to pick up the pace.

Vijay sits on the bed’s edge while his father pulls off the suit jacket and undoes his dress shirt. He looks to Malcolm helplessly. “Baby boy? Don’t cry.”

Then Vijay falls back limply, with gurgling noises, unresponsive to Malcolm’s panicked voice. Malcolm wants to throw up from the hatred twisting his father’s face, a resentful loathing toward innocent Vijay who intimately called out to Malcolm.

“Mental status depressed. He could seize up,” mutters his father. “Malcolm, did your friend mention what the hell he took? I’m ruling out heroin and cocaine without any visible needle marks. His nasal lining is smooth and regular, so it’s a nope on the dope.”

“He said his head hurt. I thought it was because he bashed it on something,” answers Malcolm.

“Was he agitated before you found him?”

“Yes. He looked sweaty and he was rubbing his chest.”

“Withdrawal. Then I can only assume that with the alcohol intake of the last couple days, your friend overdid it on the pills,” says his father. He unpacks a small oddly shaped plastic item from his travel bag. He smothers Vijay’s mouth and nose. When Vijay struggles, his father wedges the plastic up Vijaya’s nostrils and sprays the medication while Vijay pants his breathing.

“Dad!” 

“Trust me, son. The Narcan goes into his larynx, not his esophagus. The doses are no good in the boy’s stomach.”

After repeated blood pressure readings, temperature checks, and finger sticks for a glucometer, Vijay sleeps peacefully without any signs of his deathly coloring from earlier. Vijay rests on his side to prevent accidental suffocation.

“I’m glad that no little helpers were needed,” says his father. “After the fright you gave me, I’m not in a generous mood with my Valium.”

“Sorry,” says Malcolm. He licks his lips and blinks his burning eyes. “And thanks, Dad.”

“You’re not eating or sleeping,” says his father.

“Whose fault is that?” retorts Malcolm. He side steps the hand extended toward him.

“I think you need rest, Malcolm. Head back to the rental. There’s nothing you can do for your friend here.”

“No,” says Malcolm. Malcolm watches his father’s stoic expression, the emptiness dragging his detached and clinical look to the unconscious young man.

“Leave, Malcolm. You’re not going to agree with my evening plans,” orders his father.

“No! You just helped him!” shouts Malcolm. He throws himself over Vijay and places his cheek over Vijay’s warm and dry forehead.

“Dad. An ex-convict from federal prison. Social history of illicit drug use. Out of towner loose during college rush,” says his father, tabulating pertinent information as he critically regards Vijay.

“He would be missed!” says Malcolm. “I would miss him.”

“Well, it seems we have come to an impasse. I require an outlet after the day I’ve had. Release. It’s your body… or his,” says his father, issuing an ultimatum.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come to you for anything!” cries Malcolm.

“On the contrary, my boy. If you had but made time for your father. A few hours of sun. Brunch. A walk around. I would’ve been overjoyed. I could live off that for weeks. You could have stopped by for a chat while your friend gambled with his life… You chose not to. This will trigger a depressive episode. I can’t allow that to happen.” A bland smile pervades his father’s lax features. “You can’t allow that to happen.”

“How do I stop you?” The hotel carpet chafes Malcolm’s knees. He inhales Vijay’s cologne which is light and sweet despite the sickly odor, a side effect of the prescription dose. His father’s hand brushes his throat as he tips Malcolm’s face to meet eyes.

“You wounded me, son. Show me that you love me.” 

Malcolm’s cold palms rest over his father’s shirt. The fabric is white with no sweat stains. His skin prickles from the body heat. Malcolm wouldn’t have believed that his father possessed a beating heart. He bites down the seam of his mouth as he puckers up. 

His father stops him and refuses anymore advances. “Oh no no no. You’re with me when you’re with me, my boy. If I just wanted your hole, I would take it. You are giving the whole of yourself to me. We are everything to each other. Loving me is just like loving yourself.”

This time Malcolm receives a kiss. He feels nothing from the texture of his father’s facial hair. It’s like he’s watching himself deliver an empty gesture, sentiment torn from sensation. His father expresses his displeasure.

“If you can’t love me with true feelings, step aside. Your friend is wasted. His sorry state indicates to me how very little he values his own life. I can do more in the last hour of his life than he’s accomplished thus far,” says his father.

“Yes, you can,” says Malcolm bitterly. “If you would rather take him than have sex with me.”

“Of course not. Time spent with you supersedes my proclivities. However, a man such as myself will not settle for cheap action. You must love me as though you mean it. If you’ll have me, Malcolm, it must not be for the act itself,” entreats his father.

“Will you let me talk now?” says Malcolm.

“The floor is yours. Convince me,” says his father, demure.

“You’re the greatest man I know. That I’ll ever know,” says Malcolm.

“Flattery, a good start.”

“And you’re also a monster,” Malcolm adds.

His father’s posture stiffens, a defensive stance as though readying himself for an onslaught of damnation.

“I remember what I found downstairs. Or should I say who I found?” says Malcolm. “For weeks, I didn’t sleep. For months, I didn’t talk. Because I was scared.”

“Of me, obviously,” quips his father.

“Let me finish! It’s too bad if you don’t want to hear it now. You started it,” growls Malcolm.

His father makes a gesture of zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

“I was scared by what I saw. Baffled. I reacted as any child would. You, killing girls in the basement. I was scared of telling someone what I knew about you. If I told Mother, my teacher, police… they would have to take you away and put you in jail.”

Malcolm slumps, the horror of the frozen moment screaming until his brain feels like it’s on fire. He wipes his brow and presses onward.

“And then you wanted me to kill for you. You wanted to make me just like you. You self-aggrandizing narcissist,” hisses Malcolm. He takes so strongly after his mother Jessica. “You didn’t ask me what I wanted or needed. You decided that I would do what you want, discussion over.”

Malcolm straightens up, a look of pride lighting his features. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t do what I knew was wrong, even though I was a child. No matter what you did to me, I wouldn’t kill. You couldn’t make me. I will never regret sticking up for myself. I am who I am.”

“It was only after I ran away from you in the woods that I got scared again. I’m not like you, Dad. I hate hurting people. It goes against everything that I am. I can’t be like you. So I realized then that if you didn’t hate me, you were disappointed in me. I thought it was a very real possibility that you didn’t want me after I disappointed you.”

“Oh, son. No. No. You’re wrong,” his father interjects.

“I’m not done! Let me finish!” yells Malcolm, rounding on his father with a shaking finger. “You have it coming! You want my real feelings, you’re getting them. All of them!”

His father awaits more; stays present with him as Malcolm rages.

“And I was right! You thought about killing me,” spits Malcolm. “Once again, I got scared because I would have to tell Mother, my teacher, and the police. You were going to kill me. Take me camping and get rid of me. Was that the plan??”

“How did you draw that conclusion?” says his father.

“You packed one water bottle for our trip,” answers Malcolm. He fires off his question with his teeth out. “Did you plan to kill me or not? Answer me, damn it!”

“Of course not," says his father.

Malcolm’s lips press firmly, eyes sharp like a rinsed scalpel. Malcolm reads his father: the twitch of his eyelids, the outward jut of his bearded chin, the angles of his raised brows. Malcolm’s gaze separates joints from bone; could peel a man alive. 

“You changed your mind about killing me and didn't follow through. You should have.” Malcolm tips his face forward, lips trembling before he turns his head. Embraces his anguish with both arms and makes himself as small as possible.

His father clutches him. With a little puff of exertion, he picks up Malcolm bodily and sits them both on the foot of the hotel bed. Malcolm shifts to get space but the dip in the mattress from his father’s heavier weight draws him back in.

“I should’ve known that you would feel rejection. It imparts a years’ long sting,” shushes his father, squeezing Malcolm’s shoulders and rubbing his chest. The touches bring long buried nostalgic comfort despite their emotions tangled like diseased veins. “Let’s address it, shall we, son?”

Malcolm flinches from his father hugging his waist.

“Shall we?” repeats his father, cupping his chin firmly.

“Fine.” His father pecks a kiss as Malcolm gasps out, “Dad.”

His father laughs from the befuddlement wiping the aggrieved lines from Malcolm’s youthful features.

“I want you, son.” He stops Malcolm who attempts to unbutton his Hawaiian shirt with shaking hands. “Hold on. You require correction from your father. Do you believe me when I tell you that I want you?”

“No,” says Malcolm. 

“And why ever not?” his father inquires with a testy edge.

“I’ll never run into anyone who’s like you if I lived a hundred years and did anything noteworthy. You charm people. You make them laugh with you. I’m very well educated, but I’m not brilliant like how you are. There’s so many ways that I want to be like you, but I’m not. I can’t be. Why would you want me if you can’t make me exactly the way you want me?” concludes Malcolm.

“We have a relationship, Malcolm. I know myself and I know you. Desire runs intrinsically through our connection. When we share a bed, it’s for me to appreciate your body and the heart that beats within it,” says his father.

“You want my heart, too?” Malcolm’s hands tremble once more as he pulls back his hair.

“Why are you afraid? You’re not little anymore. You decided not to narc on your dad after your traumatic experiences. You have your own little hobbies without my involvement...”

“Axe throwing is not a hobby, Dad. Silver medalist,” says Malcolm. At his father’s irked glance, Malcolm gestures for him to continue.

“What’s more, you picked behavioral sciences as your intended vocation in spite of your parents’ expressed disapproval,” says his father. “You do not present as a young man who is afraid of your parents or your father, who attempted to act in your best interests. Before you point out the taboo of incestuous liaisons and what would happen if people found out, let me state that you don’t let anyone’s opinion of you stop you from following through on your own decisions.”

Surprise breaks through the nervous looks which Malcolm casts upon his father. His father praises him, wistfully.

“When you were a boy, you emulated my habits and preferences such that I assumed you were an extension of myself. You and I were curious about the human condition. When you crept into my den of horrors, I shared my darker leanings with you on the rationale that you would develop a taste for sadism as I did,” says his father, showing his grief and remorse and weighty feelings.

“We lost time. From that fateful camping trip and throughout your eventful milestones, I was no longer in accord with my first,” says his father. “The first of my heart, and of my loins. A heavy price for my assumptive founded on ego. Yet wisdom stepped in as my companion in place of your devotion.”

His father cups Malcolm’s jaw and brings their faces close together. His father regards him through lowered lids with an intensity echoed in Malcolm’s lidded gaze.

“My boy, you are no mere extension of myself. You’re every bit as brilliant, if a trifle meek. Insights quick as a flash. Knowledge based innovation like a healthy graft in place of stagnant and festering paradigms, in whichever discipline of your choosing. You will be great. Unlike me, you aren’t confined by convention. You’ve always been independent. Whereas me, I have limited myself to how well others regard me. I thrive on that recognition.”

“I’ve depended on you and Mother...” His father shakes him when Malcolm begins to deny bitterly earned wisdom.

“Yes, yes. I’ve provided as head of household. As the alpha male ought to with the big job, model wife, mansion, two point five children,” says his father. He grins at Malcolm. “As alpha, I put a scalpel in your hand and expected you to follow. Had you done so without reservation, you would’ve performed as a beta. That is what an alpha does to a beta. You are not a beta.” His father chuckles. “How many times did we get a note home from your teachers about you not following instructions? Hindsight is 20/20.”

“Then what am I?” says Malcolm. “I’m no alpha. In social engagements or a scholarly setting, I don’t exactly take over.”

“You’re an omega male,” answers his father. “You were born into the status earned by the sweat of an alpha male’s brow. Your livelihood and your access to worldly wants is not defined by people’s opinion of you. You don’t answer to anyone. You don’t answer to me, certainly, which disproves the ‘self-aggrandizing’ notion that you are an extension of me. You are a progression of myself. You came after me, but not to follow. You are meant to sojourn onward, in ways that I cannot anticipate with my conventional biases.”

“Malcolm, do you know what I feared the most when you caught me engaging in torture?” says his father when Malcolm has no coherent response to the pride and the admiration shown to him.

“You don’t have fear. You’re a psychopath,” blurts Malcolm. His tone softens. “I meant it clinically, based on texts.”

“I do lack certain nervous responses and the big ‘tells.’ Marks of the trade,” agrees his father. “Still, I fixated over what you thought of me. What every one of my friends and esteemed colleagues would think of me. I even considered the opinions of acquaintances who were nothing to me as a free man. But in shackles? Everyone’s estimation of me when I am brought low?”

His father pulls a droll face which Malcolm recognizes from black tie functions in a flood of unexpectedly fond memories.

“I shudder to think. Unironically,” quips his father. While an iota of happiness sparks Malcolm’s shy smile, his father suddenly asks, “What are you afraid of? Were you afraid of me? Is it fear that stops you now from giving me your love?”

“You can tell me,” assures his father. When Malcolm casts an anxious glance at his friend unconscious on the spare bed, his father gets his attention. “Never mind that. If he wakes, I kill him.”

His father wipes the tears shed by Malcolm when he breaks into a disturbed laugh. His father rubs at muscles to bleed out the physical stress borne by Malcolm.

“I was afraid of losing you,” says Malcolm, once he gains himself. “I kept my mouth shut, allowed myself to remain complicit in your secret, but things were never the same. We weren’t close.”

“You’ll lose me anyway. It’s the way of things,” says his father.

“Don’t say that. You’re a far cry from retirement,” refutes Malcolm.

“Cardiothoracic specialist. Even on my vegan diet, the mortality rates for a man in my risk group speak for themselves,” says his father. “What I’m getting at here is that we don’t have to keep missing each other. Give me your best. If you’re not scared of me and what I am.”

“I’m not scared of you,” says Malcolm. “I wouldn’t be here without you. You’re… alpha.”

“My omega,” murmurs his father. 

Malcolm dives into him, catching him off guard with big hugs. His father strokes the back of his head, lays his hand on Malcolm’s nape and tugs the collar of Malcolm’s shirt to kiss his neck. His father’s cheek warms his ear. 

What begins as instinctive affection deepens into more as his father’s hands adjust to the increased breadth of his lean back and his shoulders sculpted from competitive athletics. Malcolm lets him feel how grown he is. Malcolm’s fingers thread into his father’s hair. Though his father keeps his hair trimmed and oiled, the humidity frizzes the groomed hair into little curls which delight Malcolm.

Malcolm sighs when he pulls at his father’s beard. His thumb runs down the gray stripe which grew in recent years. “I missed doing that.” 

“Don’t yank them! Three grays spring up to avenge their brethren,” jokes his father.

“Where should I put my hands then, alpha?” replies Malcolm. He raises his open palms until they’re level with his flushed ears and the brown hair tousled over his eyes.

“Keep them right there,” instructs his father, his blue-gray eyes deliberate in their second once over of Malcolm’s lithe physique. His hands follow, learning his structure, measuring his development, and gaining confidence as well as knowledge of Malcolm’s body. Once he unbuttons Malcolm’s Hawaiian print shirt, his father brings Malcolm’s hands to the crown of his head, holding them suspended while his right hand traces the indentations and ridges of Malcolm’s upper body.

“You’ve grown into a sweet young man,” praises his father. He’s taken aback when Malcolm shifts onto his lap, Malcolm’s legs bent apart and hanging down the sides of his calves.

“And you still look fresh as a daisy,” retorts Malcolm.

“One of the perks when one quits smoking,” quips his father. “As well as a good night’s rest. You need to sleep more.”

“Not tonight,” pleads Malcolm. 

“Well, just this once, you can stay up with me,” says his father. He dotes on Malcolm with drawn out kisses and long winded touches, focus narrowed to enjoyment of physicalities. Malcolm’s hands moving in assertive exploration gives credence to the yearning and the hero worship he perceived in Malcolm’s voice. He grips Malcolm’s shoulders and pushes his hips upward to grind his firm cock alongside Malcolm’s swelled length. Malcolm sucks his lips and rocks into him, moaning low with desperation. Malcolm wraps his legs around his father who tugs down the waistband of his white shorts. His father rolls him onto the bed. His beard tickles Malcolm’s navel.

“As charming as I find the tropical print, you will remove your shirt,” says his father with a quick kiss. “If you will excuse me.” His father clambers out of bed.

Malcolm misses his father, feeling oddly bereft when he is laid bare without his father on top of him as before. His father retrieves his duffel bag for a black zippered medical kit. Surgical tools are arranged in nylon loops, but his father chooses a small plastic tube. His father warms clear gel on his fingertips before parting Malcolm’s thighs and touching the pinprick hole.

“Do you need to wash up?” inquires his father.

“I cleaned up before we went out,” answers Malcolm. His cheeks redden as he admits to pre-meditated intentions for the evening.

“My boy,” says his father, patting and soothing his chest. “You’ll enjoy this more if you relax. Let me care for you. Wherever your heart is willing, mind and body shall follow. Do you want to make love with me?”

“I shouldn't,” says Malcolm.

“Are you ashamed of me or how you feel about me? In this very moment we are sharing?” says his father.

“I am. I should be ashamed. And angry. So angry,” says Malcolm. His lips shake and he forces back tears. 

“Can you let it go?” pleads his father, thumbs brushing the damp corners of Malcolm’s sorrowful eyes.

“I’m willing to let go.” Malcolm is a lovely portrait in his weakness.

“You’re letting go, for me?”

“I can’t keep hating you. I don’t even want to anymore. I’m so, so tired,” says Malcolm.

“What do you want from me now? Tell me and I can give it to you,” promises his father who looks nothing less than enchanted.

“I want you inside me,” confesses Malcolm. He cranes his neck, a wanton moan escaping his throat when he feels the fingers sinking between the crevice of his ass.

“Who do you want?” says his father.

“I want you,” gasps Malcolm.

“And who am I? Who are you feeling inside you right now?” demands his father, penetration deepening their connection.

“You’re a cold-blooded killer. How am I supposed to feel?” grieves Malcolm.

“That is what I am. Killer though I may be, you’ll find that my blood runs hot. Who am I to you? Tell me who you want,” persists his father.

Malcolm is tempted to say that he wants his father, his dad, Doctor Whitly, etc. If he stated either of those labels, he would’ve been denying himself the truest answer. Without holding back, Malcolm addresses the greatest man he’ll ever know.

“Martin.” The name of the man he loves spills from Malcolm’s lips in a daring sweep of breath. Malcolm eases into tremulous joy, with his father’s tacit permission to be expressive in his speech and in his actions. To be free in his thoughts.

“Martin,” repeats Malcolm. “Martin, my lover.” Saying it unlocks newfound pleasure. 

“Indeed, you shall have me, Malcolm,” says Martin. He strips off every stitch of clothing and lets Malcolm see the whole of him. Martin’s gut is hardened from years of indulgent meals prior to his restricted diet. He bears the signs of gravity, age, and stress. Malcolm’s fingers sink along muscles no longer firm by youth and robust hormones. Malcolm luxuriates in the hairs speckling Martin’s soft chest. Malcolm cups Martin’s buttocks which feel chapped and dimpled.

Time and again his hands are lodged wrist deep in human indignities and soaked in blood; yet he cradles Malcolm’s beautiful face. Martin beholds virtue unspoiled by his violent, almost primal, yearnings. Then he drives his fingers once more into Malcolm, curling the tips with his intention to trigger Malcolm every way that he can. He drinks in Malcolm’s frantic little breaths. Martin’s cock waxes strong when he stretches Malcolm and fondles him mercilessly.

“Malcolm, listen to me very carefully,” says Martin. “It is not my intent to show cruelty or inflict torture on you. The discomfort from when I breach you will pass. I would rather not withdraw to prevent undue injury.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” says Malcolm, sounding heartbroken.

“How brave you are, young man,” chuckles Martin. “This is your warning. I will not stop until you submit to who you want.”

Bliss, for Martin, is Malcolm pliant within his control and sweating in his bed and braving through tears on his pillow. He fucks Malcolm on top, admiring Malcolm’s pale throat and penciled lashes, halting when Malcolm’s palms cinch his lower back.

“Take abdominal breaths, feel the compression of your diaphragm,” instructs Martin. Malcolm remains tight around his cock but his arms are no longer coiled to push Martin away. Nor do his legs shutter closed to wrestle from Martin’s hold.

“What are you feeling?” Martin tongues the hollow of his throat and sucks on a pulse point. “My Malcolm.”

“I feel your cock. It’s too much,” says Malcolm.

“I’m not particularly endowed, but thank you,” says Martin. He feels musculature fluttering along his cock when Malcolm laughs; his hips are primed to thrust. He captures Malcolm’s lips in a kiss to be still. Martin’s head turns side to side, using his swollen lips to caress Malcolm’s. His tongue flicks between the part of Malcolm’s wet mouth. He plays with suction and pressure and teeth. 

“Where is your focus?” asks Martin. “Is it just the feeling that has you?”

Malcolm touches Martin’s face, running his hand down the beard. Malcolm’s fear turns into thrills from how nearly he brings Martin off the edge of control. “I’m thinking about you. It's really you. Fucking me. Oh, Martin!”

Martin risks himself for the moment when he draws Malcolm deeper under his power, further beneath him where Malcolm belongs. He claims another inch of Malcolm, possessively wins him. 

Martin warms the lube on his fingers before he grips Malcolm’s cock, taking the boy in hand. His arm crooks beneath the curve of Malcolm’s neck. He licks the sensitive area close to Malcolm’s ear, something he learned from his wife.

“Think about me and who I am and why I’m doing this to you. I am the alpha. Every bit of joy you experience came from me. You came from me. I made you. I am in you. I am covering you. You will feel this for the rest of your life even if I never touch you again.”

“Alpha?” repeats Malcolm, his throat swallowing between his shocked cries from Martin’s passion at work within him.

“Yes. I’m the alpha. You are my omega. I love you. We are the same!” declares Martin. He pumps with fervor as they join lips. Martin thinks about himself, who he is, and he pleasures his son exactly the way he prefers. Malcolm clenches around him, erupting into orgasm, while Martin fills him with seed. 

Malcolm’s hand flails, unsure what he’s reaching for, when Martin catches his wrist. Martin cradles his bent leg, triggering warm ripples as he touches up and down Malcolm's lightly haired skin. His lips smack against relaxed muscle. "You are wanted, Malcolm." Martin continues his soothing ministrations. "I will want you again. Because of who you are." Martin surges into Malcolm for another kiss, circling his hips until Malcolm arches upward to match him.

Martin asks Malcolm if this is what he also wants; the silence is telling.

"When you're ready. Do you understand why you will let me have you?" says Martin.

"It's the way you make me feel inside. It's you, Martin."

"Yes, my boy. Being with one another as we truly are. Your knowledge of me, great and terrible. Your love for me. It commands you." Martin’s weight squishing Malcolm into the bed makes him feel less unmoored. Water helps. Malcolm drinks from a bottle and accepts a pill from Martin with reluctance.

“You must sleep,” says Martin.

Martin makes him get into the shower first and simply watches how Malcolm cleanses himself. The shower water drips onto the floor when Martin pulls aside the curtain to scrub Malcolm’s back. Malcolm seizes the loofah and makes good use of it all over Martin, gleaning his future from the differences between their bodies wrought by time.

Malcolm towels off and dries his hair. When Martin gets his turn with the hair dryer, Malcolm pads toward the bed where Vijay sleeps. Martin remorselessly dumps Vijay onto the flat carpet when he sees which bed Malcolm picked.

“Dad!” exclaims Malcolm.

“Oh, he’ll live.” Martin shrugs and tosses down a conciliatory pillow. With black humor quirking his lips, Martin flaps a white sheet over Vijay’s prone and unresponsive body.

“You have your own bed,” says Malcolm.

“Then you should be warming it for me.” He steps on Vijay’s neck, crawls onto the vacated indent and embraces Malcolm, hands entwined with Malcolm’s arms crossed over his torso.

“We’re in the Sunshine state. Cold beds are not a thing,” says Malcolm.

“What do you know about beds as a rampant insomniac?” replies Martin. He nips at Malcolm’s skin, smiling when Malcolm turns his head for another lingering kiss.

“I know my way around _your_ bed,” says Malcolm.

“Go to sleep. Dream a little dream of me.” Martin’s cheek snuggles Malcolm’s smooth brown hair.

“I always do,” confides Malcolm, lost on the drift.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read Pond's darkfic "our blood is gold" PSon x Luck, you can tell where I was massively inspired. “And who is it that’s making you feel good right now..." In Pond fic, Doctor Whitly says that to Malcolm's look alike. Which made me question, what if Doctor Whitly said it to his actual son? Even though "our blood is gold" is a crossover, you don't need to watch Luck. Martin is a bastard enough for two verses. Incredibly well-written non-con, if ya like the dark stuff. I saw it and appropriated the best ideas fufufufufu. So Martin being far from home, Malcolm in college, Martin on a work trip, Martin being the one to initiate, Martin's mind games in bed, and Martin fawning over Malcolm compared to how he would mistreat a stranger who is his son's age. I absolutely took a leaf out of Pond fic.
> 
> -
> 
> Part 2 of 3 of the "Cocktales" series is titled "Sex on the Beach." Malcolm encounters soldiers on three days leave. Wildly consensual Brimel. "Sex on the Beach" may be read as stand alone fic or as a continuation of "A Short Trip to Hell." Please note that Martin will not be appearing in "Sex on the Beach" and the Brightly incest elements are vague/implied.


End file.
